


Country Roads

by Crowdays



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: :), Eventual Smut, Lots of drama, M/M, Minor Violence, Road Trips, both of them are ridiculous and i wrote this because i could, kinda crack i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7186667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowdays/pseuds/Crowdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'If someone had told Arthur that in the near future he’d be penniless, trouserless and standing on the side of a barren Texas road with his thumb held out for a ride, he’d have laughed. Hard.'</p><p>Arthur needs to get to New York in five days so that he can attend an important- if not crucial- business meeting with a potential partner. Alfred F. Jones is a man offering to drive him as far as West Virginia. Things could've gone simpler, but a road trip with a volatile half dressed Englishman and a patriotic, over-the-top American was destined to crash and burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this ridiculous and terribly exaggerated fanfiction- it's quite fun to write. I just wanted to try something with a lighter tone as compared to my other work, Goodnight Sweetheart. In any case, I expect this fanfiction will be rather long so, er, buckle up. :D

If someone had told Arthur that in the near future he’d be penniless, trouserless and standing on the side of a barren Texas road with his thumb held out for a ride, he’d have laughed. Hard.

 

But now that he was indeed standing by the side of a highway he _presumed_ to be in Texas, listening to the milkweeds whisper with every rush of hot wind and feeling his white dress shirt cling evermore to his sweaty back, he found himself entirely unable to muster a single chuckle. From an outside perspective, he imagined the sight of a pale, haggard and woebegone Englishman trying to hitch a ride on what seemed to be the most desolate strip of asphalt in the country would have been quite the spectacle, and especially since he’d come to misplace his trousers. But the sun was hot and the gust was harsh, never mind his hangover and the awful taste it left in his mouth. If anything, Arthur felt more inclined to scream than to laugh at his situation, though the dryness of his throat had stopped any further thought on the matter.

 

How he’d come to be in such a situation was a confusing tale he’d rather not recount; mostly because it was incredibly embarrassing, but also because he couldn’t quite remember it. What he could say was that he’d come to America—to Dallas—on a business trip in order to secure a proposition between his company based in London and a potential partner in America. Though the potential partner company was based in New York, the CEO he was to meet insisted on holding the conference in Dallas for a reason Arthur didn’t care to remember, but thought it unnecessary at the time.

 

Now that Arthur tried recalling his steps, he couldn’t quite remember what happened after the meeting. He remembered finding the bar of the hotel they’d held their conference in, and being in a sore need for a drink after sitting in said conference for the better part of the day. Then his memories cut forward in time, and he remembered loud shouting over the top of a gin bottle, then the moving lights of lampposts blurring past, one after the other. He couldn’t remember what exactly led him to lose his trousers, or his wallet, or his phone, or the circumstances of how he’d woken up on the side of a highway with sand plastered to his face from where he’d used the ground as a pillow.

 

But what he could remember was that the CEO he’d held his meeting with had wanted him to travel to New York in next five days so that he could meet his associates and further discuss the arrangements. Why they couldn’t have held their first meeting in New York was beyond him, but if Arthur was to get anywhere in the next five days—by plane, car or otherwise—the first step would be to get himself out of the desolate wasteland he’d somehow woken up to, and not to question how he’d got there in the first place.

 

Which is why he’d taken to hitchhiking, for lack of better things to do. Though he was sure reception would be next to nothing out in the middle of god knows where, Arthur longed for his phone. He longed to complain to Francis, his colleague, about how awful his lower back hurt, about how he could feel several tiny rocks in his shiny black oxford shoes, how he was sure he’d never return to the godforsaken state of Texas so long as he lived—that, and to obviously explain that he was without money or trousers or any mode of transportation, and that he needed help immediately. But Arthur no longer had a phone nor any way of informing those that knew him of his whereabouts, so it was with a rather frantic wave that he watched the shape of a car slowly approach over the hazy horizon, sending a silent prayer to whatever God was out there that the driver was both kind enough to stop and sane enough not to murder the poor trouserless Englishman hailing him down.

 

As the car—or rather, the rusty old pickup truck—slowed and the incessant rumble of its engine gently putted to a standstill a few metres before him, he started to doubt the latter would be true. But after watching several cars few and far between pass him by without so much as a pitiful look his way, Arthur decided he’d spent too much time out in the hot Texan sun to be making decisions his mother would be proud of; for example, not getting into strange cars with strange people. Instead, he hurried his way to the truck’s window, his sharp business shoes _click, click, clicking_ all the while. He’d feared the driver would pull off before Arthur could reach the window, so it was with some relief that he found they were already lowering it to speak with him.

 

“Hello!” Arthur exclaimed through harsh breaths, winded from the effort to reach them in time. “Thank—you for—for stopping. Thanks.”

 

After he’d caught his breath, his eyes finally locked on with the driver; a blonde, blue eyed and spectacled American, if he could tell anything from the miniature flag bouncing proudly on his dashboard. Whether it was due to the fact Arthur was expecting to be met by a rather unkempt old man—or because his blue t-shirt fit him just right in that he could practically see the muscles underneath—the driver was far more attractive than what he imagined a stirred serial killer trawling the desert would look like. Instead, Arthur would’ve pinned the man to be one of those male model that shot toothpaste commercials in Los Angeles. Honestly, if the man’s grin got any whiter it would become a safety hazard.

“Well howdy there stranger,” the man started, his accent as thick as the arid heat beating down on them. “How’d ya come to be all the way out here? And… uh… without your pants?”

 

Arthur had forgotten he was trouserless in both the rush to get to the truck and because the man’s good looks had wiped the better part of his mind. Having the modesty to look embarrassed, he pulled the ends of his shirt down in order to cover what was left of his propriety. Sure, he still had his plain white boxer shorts, but it was rather unnerving holding a conversation with a stranger with his underwear on full display.  
  
“It’s a long story,” Arthur replied eventually, hoping his voice didn’t portray just how desperately he wanted to just get in the truck and out of the sun. Well, anymore desperate than a trouserless, dusty foreigner could seem. “Would it be alright if you could, I don’t know, drop me off at the next town you pass? I’m in a bit of a mess, as you can see, and I really need to get to New York before—“

 

“Woah, hey now! You got a hell of an accent on ya. British, right?” the man chimed in suddenly, his eyes focusing on Arthur in such a way it was as though he were rather a child at a zoo exhibit, examining the rare and endangered creature from where he sat behind the safety of his wheel. “Dang, you’re a loooong way from home. Oh wait. You said New York, didn’tcha? Well, it just so happens I’m headed towards West Virginia, so I guess you can hop on in next to me and ill take ya as far as there. Or, y’know, to the next town, if it suits ya better.”

 

Despite his previous willingness, Arthur took his time to consider the man’s offer to satisfy his own self-preservation. The man certainly seemed nice enough, if not a little vacant upstairs, and it wasn’t as if Arthur had many other offers lined up. Besides, all he had to do was get to the next town, find a phone that he could use and call Francis, who would then sort this whole conundrum—

 

“Hello? You still in there, dude?”

 

“Y-yes yes, I was just, er,” _debating on whether or not you’re a murderer_ , Arthur finished mentally, knowing it would be rather awkward to say that out loud. Instead, he gave a determined nod, and opened the truck door. “It’s kind of you to help. Thank you,” Arthur finished as he plopped himself down into the passenger seat, returning the American’s grin with a small smile of his own.

 

“No problem! I’m just an everyday hero,” the man gave a wink Arthur’s way as he did up his seatbelt, and Arthur raised a thick eyebrow and pulled at the ends of his dress shirt again.

 

“Yes, well, I’m just Arthur. I’m assuming this everyday hero goes by a name, too?”

 

“Alfred F. Jones, at your service,” Alfred tipped an imaginary hat before pulling a ragged picnic blanket out from the glove box, offering it to Arthur. Arthur accepted it and pulled it across him wordlessly, thankful that the American allowed him this privacy; or perhaps it was because Alfred didn’t want to see a trouserless, pale Brit every time he looked right. In either case, Arthur was grateful to cover his lower half once again.

 

“We’d best get back on the road then, huh?” Alfred chirped, thrusting the truck back into first gear and ordering the humming engine to life. They had only gotten a few several metres down the road when Alfred spoke again, this time directed to the windscreen rather than to Arthur personally. “So, what’s the story? We got a fair while to go before we get to the next town.”

 

“Really, it’s… it’s a rather complicated story.”

 

“Well, ya lost your pants an’ all, so I bet its an interestin’ one too.”

 

Arthur side eyed the American, his brows furrowing. “Are you implying something?”

 

Alfred laughed heartily, and Arthur forced himself not to watch the way his muscles moved with the effort. “No, no, don’t mind me. Just spill the beans, Artie.”

 

“ _Arthur_ ,” he corrected, shaking his head. “And if it’s alright, id really just like to relax for a while—my throat is killing me.”

 

“Oh! There’s a water bottle somewhere down where your feet are, if you’re thirsty. Sorry I didn’t tell ya before.” With that, Arthur looked down and found the water in question. It was hot to the touch, but that was no matter; now that he had water in hand, Arthur suddenly realised how desperate he was for a drink that wasn’t alcoholic.

 

For some time after, things settled into a comfortable silence—or at least, comfortable for Arthur. Though he still wasn’t sure his life was in good hands, at least he was no longer stuck on the side of the road and slowly developing a sunburn. Watching the landscape rush past his window was enough to keep him satisfied, and the breeze coming in from the window managed to cool the better part of his face. Still, it seemed the same appreciation for the quiet didn’t translate to Alfred, as he eventually leaned over to tune the old car stereo onto a channel that played—to Arthur’s chagrin—country music.

 

“Dude!” Alfred cheered, already tapping his hands along to the song. “This is my jam.”

 

“Must you—“

 

“Well a simple kinda life never did me no harm, a raisin’ me family and workin’ on a farm,” Alfred sang, and Arthur watched in both morbid fascination and horror as the American tried to match the beat on his battered steering wheel. “My days are all filled with an easy country charm—Thank God I’m a country boy! Wahoo!”

 

Arthur prayed that they’d reach the next town soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Alfred's singing is 'Thank God I'm a Country Boy' by John Denver. I heard it yesterday on the radio, so... Yeah. Thought I'd share. :) Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, Arthur hadn’t been far from civilisation—one fifty-minute drive later, they’d reached what looked to be a small country town nestled on the horizon. Still, he wouldn’t have thought he was so close to society; before, the landscape bore nothing but the yellowing scrub of desert sands and the far away shadows of old western mountains. He hadn’t expected a town to suddenly fabricate in the heart of a dry wasteland, but he was thankful it did; had he spent another hour listening to Alfred’s poor attempts to sing along to his even poorer choice of music, he would’ve snapped.

But as soon as the town appeared, Alfred lowered the volume and gave a nod towards it. “That there’s Marathon—I like to stop there for gas, ‘cuz the prices are better than Fort Stockton’s. They’ve also got one of them public phones, if you were wanting to call somebody.” 

“Yes, that’s good,” Arthur answered, shifting in his seat. “Thank you for bringing me this far, Alfred.” 

From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Alfred smile brightly. “No problem! Like I said, if things don’t work out for ya, I’ll be happy to have a road partner. West Virginia’s a whole lot closer to New York than ol’ Marathon, after all.” 

“I suppose it is,” Arthur replied, leaning forward in his seat and crossing his arms. “But I really don’t think that’s necessary; as much as I’ve… _enjoyed_ your company, I’m used to quicker modes of transportation.” 

“Quicker transportation?” 

“Yes,” Arthur smirked at the way Alfred’s accent twinged the words. Silently, he wondered if Alfred had ever been on a plane, let alone experienced anything higher than business class—or, god forbid, economy. Deciding to test his theory, he turned to Alfred. “Have you ever flown before, Alfred?” 

Alfred returned his look with a raised eyebrow before chuckling. “Flown? I don’t know how you Brits are back at home, Artie, but here in America people don’t fly.” 

“No,” Arthur rolled his eyes, “I mean, have you ever taken a plane?”

“Oh—you mean, like, commercial?” Alfred asked, shifting the truck back into third. As the car lurched, Arthur had to steady himself on the dashboard. 

“Well yes, commercial,” Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, wondering what on earth Alfred thought he meant. 

“Nah, never needed to. I like driving, y’know? You get to see a whole lot more of the country,” Alfred smiled, sending a glance out his window. Arthur followed his gaze; more white desert and dying bushes. Just looking at it made his eyes ache from the glare, thus he returned his sights to the town ahead—Marathon, his saviour. 

As they reached the street roads, however, the prospects of a comfortable rescue dwindled with every rickety old building they passed. It seemed not one inch of the town was free from the dust of the desert. That as it were, however, as soon as Alfred pulled into a fuel station that looked more like a saloon, Arthur immediately hopped out and made for the lonely phone booth standing next to it, his makeshift picnic dress flapping in the wind all the while.

He only stopped when Alfred called, “Hey! You, er, need change for that?”

After a brisk walk back to Alfred—who had fumbled with one hand pumping gas and the other searching for loose coins in his pockets—Arthur made his way to the telephone booth this time with enough quarters to buy him a chat with his bank to cancel his lost credit cards and four minutes with his French colleague. 

That is, if his French colleague would pick up. 

“Fucking pillock,” Arthur hissed into the phone as he dialled once more, each press of the buttons coming out more like a vicious jabs. “Of all the bloody times I need you to answer, you don’t—“ 

“Bonjour—who is this?” 

“Francis,” Arthur all but cried in relief, the tension in his shoulders relaxing instantly. Where usually the Frenchman’s voice grated on his nerves, it was a godsend now. 

“Excuse-moi? I am Francis, oui. But who are you?”

“Cut the crap, Frog. You know who this is.”

“Ah, Arthur, rosbif. I do not recognise your number. You know I’m away from the office after four, right—”

“I lost my phone, the keys to the rental, and my trousers. Help me.” 

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek as he listened to the Frenchman laugh. “Oh my, Arthur! Did you have a liaison with an unsavoury character? Oh, but I suppose you wouldn’t remember—you never do anything fun unless you’re very, very drunk. I assume correct, hm?” 

“No. Yes. No. Shut up,” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, “I don’t remember, so let’s just quit that while we’re ahead. I’m not in Dallas anymore—I’m in, uh, some backwater town called Marathon, and I need you to get me a jet out of here. By today. With trousers.”

“And how do you suppose I do that?”

“Well I don’t know, pull some strings! I’m the one meeting with these yanks, surely you—“ 

“Oh, how did the meeting go?”

“Yes, it was great, they want to meet again in New York in the next five days,” Arthur shook is head as though he were annoyed Francis even asked, “but that’s why I need you to help me. How am I to be in New York by next Friday?”

“Can’t you pay for a train or taxi?” 

“First of all, I don’t have my bloody wallet. Second, this place is practically a ghost town, Bonnefoy, do you think I can just hale a taxi out of nowhere?!”

“Well I don’t know— I have never heard of this... ah, Marathon town you have stumbled upon. What about the luggage back at the hotel?”

“That’s in Dallas.”

“Ah. I see,” Francis paused for a moment, and Arthur huffed impatiently into the phone. After a while, he heard what he assumed was the Frenchman taking a sip of whatever pompous drink he’d gotten himself. “You’re truly fucked, then.”

“That’s it? Can’t you get me a plane ticket, at least?!”

“Arthur, you know we’re cutting back on company spending, and since the end of the financial year they’ve been paying attention to costs. I can’t just send a jet out to get you because you got drunk in some country town. How do you think that will look? Not just for me, but for you? We have already spent money on your plane fare to and from America, not to mention your hotel.”

This time, it was Arthur who paused. With a sigh, he let his head rest against the cold steel wall of the phone booth. “You have a point. But what am I supposed to do?” 

“Well, ah, how did you get to Marathon? Did your unsavoury bed partner take you there, or…?” 

“No, Francis. I woke up in a desert and hitchhiked here.” 

“…I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” 

“Of course I am!” Arthur hissed, and Francis’ accented laughter echoed through the tinny phone once again. 

“Ah, how very interesting. You will have to tell me all about it when you return, hm? But for now, I must cut our conversation short. You can hitchhike, oui?”

Arthur sent a glance back to Alfred, who was paying for the fuel inside and chatting happily to the cashier. He sighed. “Yes, I can. But Francis—“ 

“Then I wish you very happy travels, mon cher. Au revoir!”

“Fuck you,” Arthur barked into the phone, knowing full well that the Frenchman had hung up already. Still, that didn’t stop him from slamming the phone back on the holder, enjoying the metallic slap noise it gave in return. 

As he made his way back to the truck, a jingle alerted him to Alfred’s exit from the saloon-esque fuel station. The American had several bags of crisps tucked in arms, but he shifted them so that he could retrieve his keys. “You all good then? Talk to ya buddies?” he said, and opened the driver door. He shoved the bags into the middle.

“Not quite,” Arthur replied, albeit reluctantly. Arthur hated to admit weakness to anybody, even if he was half dressed in a picnic blanket. Though he knew Alfred had offered him a ride, that was before Arthur steadfastly refused it—would the offer still be on the table? Furthermore, would the American laugh at Arthur’s submission, laugh at the fact that he was eating his own words? Would the American gloat?

As Arthur’s worries raged on, Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Oh,” he began, pushing his thin silver glasses back up his nose. “Did you need more coins?”

“N-no, I called them,” Arthur hurried, shaking his head. Once again, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “No… I, er, well… It seems they cant help me, so I would be—be more than grateful if, I… If I could accompany—“ he frowned at his own words. With a grievous huff, he spat out, “If I could accompany you to West Virginia, thank you.” 

The American laughed, and Arthur’s frown deepened into a scowl. Before he could say anything, however, Alfred clapped a warm hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t just leave ya here without any means a transportation or, uh, pants. Like I said, Art, I got a free seat for a traveller down on his luck.” 

Sending a sidewards glance towards Alfred’s lingering hand—calloused and tanned and all too heavy and warm, was that normal?— he gave an awkward cough and tried to not look as overwhelmingly pleased as he felt inside. “Alright. Shall we head off, then? I need to be in New York in five days, so I think it's best if we don't delay the trip any longer than necessary.”

At that, Alfred pulled a pout and finally released Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur tried to ignore how cold it felt without his hand there, and instead focused on how silly a grown man looked with a pout. “Awww, but I thought we could grab some breakfast at the lil’ Marathon café down the street. They do some pretty mean pancakes.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and tugged at his picnic wrap. “Do you really think they’ll let me in without trousers?” 

“Oh yeah,” Alfred laughed, shutting the truck door. “Well, we better fix that. There’s a clothes shop down the street, too—We’ll getcha some good ol’ American jeans, m’kay? You’ll fit right in.” 

Arthur didn’t know how he felt about American jeans, but it was certainly a step up from a picnic blanket. And if they looked anything like Alfred’s own pair of jeans—a blue washed pair that complimented his strong thighs, his narrow waist, his superb arse— he supposed he wouldn’t mind them all that much.

Thus, with a small nod, he let Alfred lead him down the dusty pavement and towards whatever rickety building proclaimed themself a clothes shop. Though he didn’t care much for the opinion of country folk—for once he returned to his London home, their thoughts would be inconsequential – he still couldn’t help the embarrassed glower that formed on his face as he most certainly _ignored_ the stares and whispers of passing strangers. Alfred seemed oblivious to the attention Arthur’s dress received, in any case, and he couldn’t decide if he found the American’s need to greet every person he passed annoying or endearing. 

In the end, he decided on both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter took longer to come out because of how dialogue heavy it is-- I've always taken longer to write dialogue, so... yeah! Let me know what you guys think. :)


End file.
